A Thrill of Hope
by beckyhughes
Summary: A series of interconnected holiday drabbles. Set in canon Christmas episode universe. Mostly Carson/Hughes fluff and cute children because reasons.
1. the world in solemn stillness lay

Charles Carson stood steadfast before Downton's prodigious Christmas tree, having paused as he completed his rounds for the night. All was dark in the great hall save for the soft glow of the tree's lights. He allowed himself the tiniest of satisfied smiles, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment so that he might inhale the fresh, robust scent of pine that emanated from the tree's lofty branches.

A hint of another familiar scent tickled his nose; rosewater and bergamot, with the slightest notes of Ivory soap. He kept his eyes closed, holding his breath so that he would hear her steps slowing, the faint jingling of her chatelaine. He was listening so intently that he swore— in the complete hush that fell over the house at the late hour — he could nearly hear her tongue dart out to wet her rosy lips before she spoke.

"Don't worry, I've not come to scold you for lingering," she said, her burr thick and husky as she struggled to keep her voice low, "I thought I might join you."

He exhaled, reluctantly, wishing he could drink her in always — bottling her scent, wearing it in a vial around his neck so that he might be intoxicated in stolen moment's of missing her near to him. She appeared at his side, sighing pleasantly as she lifted her gaze to the tree.

"I daresay this might be the loveliest tree the Crawley's have ever had," he said, folding his hands neatly behind his back.

"It's very grand," she nodded, "The whole house seems particularly enamored by the holiday this year."

Carson looked down at her, "How so?"

Mrs Hughes shrugged, "I couldn't say precisely but," she bit her lip thoughtfully, "Perhaps it's all the wee ones underfoot."

"No more than last year. . .Master George, Miss Sybbie and Miss Marigold" he said, "Of course the little pitter patters have yet to arrive for Lady Rose and Anna, but you seem to think the Bates' may have a particularly joyful noel this year."

Mrs Hughes blushed, though in the darkness he couldn't see it. He could only tell because of how she curled her lips around the words, her voice rising a bit.

"By the looks of the poor girl the babe should have arrived a fortnight ago!" she laughed, folding her hands neatly in front of her middle, "Yes, I think the Bates' shall have the gift of a lifetime this Christmas. . ."

"Tender and mild," Charles sighed, returning his gaze to the tree, which flickered silently before them, casting tiny shadows along the windows, making it appear as though the stars were embedded in the glass, "I cannot help but remember the ladies when they were young. Those were some of the finest Christmases at Downton indeed."

"I suppose Saint Nicholas always brought Lady Mary exactly what she asked for?" Mrs Hughes said, looking up at him from beneath her dark eyelashes.

Carson shrugged, "I cannot remember, but surely they did. The Crawley girls were never naughty."

Mrs Hughes' eyebrows shot up, "Oh, is that so Mr Carson?" she smirked, sighing a bit. "If Saint Nicholas came to you for the verdict every year than I should think the young ladies owe you quite a debt of gratitude for being so generous with your references of character."

Carson chuckled, "The envy of many a disgraced footman."

She laughed at this, shaking her head slightly. They stood next to one another for a quiet moment, admiring the tree, before she felt him reach down for her hand. He wrapped it between his two warm paws, frowning a bit.

"Your hands are always very cold," he said, "I know they say something like ' _cold hands, warm heart_ ' but I find myself fretting over frostbite. Particularly now that snow's begun to fall." Lifting his hands, which encased her tiny one within it, he brought it to his mouth and blew gently moment before settling it against his chest. Her love for him swelled and she wrapped her free arm round his back so that she could rest flush against him, her hand settled in his above his heart. "If I'm to be honest, I suppose I ought to concede that it was not Lady Mary nor Lady Edith who was the spirit of Christmas. . .surely you remember."

"Oh yes – dear, sweet Lady Sybil, may she rest in peace. She was the only one of the young ladies I knew from birth."

"Yes, that's right — she was born just before Christmas the year you arrived."

"And you chastised me in the servant's hall for saying she was the most beautiful bairn I'd ever laid eyes on!"

He dropped her hand only so that he could wrap his arm round her waist, resting his chin atop her head, "That's not how I remember it."

"No?"

"I wasn't reprimanding you for saying she was a beautiful baby, I was reprimanding you for having snuck into the nursery when you went upstairs to change the linens."

Pulling away from his chest, she looked up at him indignantly, "Is that what you supposed I'd done? Stolen a glance at her in the nursery?"

"Well. . .didn't you?"

"No, you daft man!" she laughed, swatting his arm playfully, "Her Ladyship was nursing the bairn when I went up to bring fresh linens. The room was in chaos — the doctor still packing up his bag — I think His Lordship must have stepped out for a brandy," she smiled at the memory, "Her Ladyship bade me come to her bedside and admire the wee bairn. She was exhausted, of course, but still very elegant. She asked me to hold Lady Sybil so that she could get out of bed, so that I might change the linens — I was gobsmacked! Holding the bairn of a Countess — I'm sure she wasn't thinking, so tired and in pain no doubt — but also so terribly happy. She was beaming and she laid the little one in my arms," her voice choked a bit, her eyes stinging with unshed tears, "Sweet lamb. No bigger than a loaf of bread — and just as warm," she laughed, reaching up to finger the moisture from her eyelashes. She sighed, shaking her shoulders out a bit, "I had a bit of a soft spot for her, I did, dear girl. And I know you'll balk at my saying so, but I thought no two young people were better matched than she and Mr Branson. Miss Sybil's proof enough of that."

Carson hesitated, but wanted very much to reach for her then. He'd been learning, though, in the year since he'd asked for her hand, that sometimes his hand on her shoulder added to the weight she carried rather than taking away. So he waited, studying her for a moment, watching as her eyes glistened in the soft glow of the tree's lights.

Clearing his throat, he took a step toward the tree, inspecting one of the ornaments which hung proudly from a thick branch — a small globe that encased a tiny stuffed gray mouse.

"Do you remember the year — oh, she must have been five, maybe six? — that we were all instructed to watch Lady Sybil like a _hawk_ if we happened to spot her teetering toward the tree. It seemed that she had become quite distraught at the fate of the poor mouse inside this globe and had decided that she must liberate him."

Mrs Hughes laughed, pressing her hand to her bosom, "Aye, I do remember. I believe it was _we_ who discovered her poised to smash it on Christmas Eve."

"It was, wasn't it? Yes, that's right. You'd spotted her and flagged me down from the landing of the stairs."

"And you roared a mighty roar at the poor girl!"

"I only meant to get her attention, I wasn't angry —"

"Oh, of course but she was such a wee slip of thing — the whole house shakes with the sound of your voice, you know."

"She ran to you."

"Ran _into_ me, more like it!" Mrs Hughes chuckled, "I was right behind her when she turned to run from you — but we had her cornered."

"And I believe 'twas you who properly quelled her fears about the mouse's fate. You quoted verse?"

" _Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!"_

Carson blinked, having understood nothing of what she'd said.

"Robert Burns," she said, reaching down to take his hand in hers, "I recited the poem and then told her that the mouse was the envy of all the other mice because _he_ could see everything from his little globe, all the comings and goings, the presents and the parties. He was the luckiest mouse of them all, he was."

Carson sighed, "She always ran down the stairs to hang that ornament every year. Oh, how dismayed she'd be if someone unboxed it before she'd come downstairs!"

Mrs Hughes reached out, touching the cool glass of the ornament, her nails clinking ever-so softly against the glass bauble.

"Now that we're speaking of it, I must admit I've never noticed: who has hung it since she passed away?"

Pulling her hand back from the branch, she laid her head against his broad chest, "I have," she said quietly, "Though I suppose the time has come for the tradition to be passed, wouldn't you agree? I think Miss Sybbie is old enough."

He looked down at her with his soft, adoring gaze and held it fast until just before his lips grazed her forehead with a tender kiss.


	2. a star, a star dancing in the night

**A/N:** Aww, I've missed you guys! I thought I'd do a 25 Days of Chelsie prompt of sorts. . .though I started early because I had more prompts than there were days until Christmas. . .ha. If anyone wants the prompt list I made I'll happily share! It's lyrics from various holiday carols, hymns, etc. Most of these are already written and they'll vary in length, but I hope I can post one (or two) a day between now and the holiday! However, next week I will be in NYC so I may get a little behind (Steph and I are going to the Downton event — with Jim and Phyllis, gah! And then the next day I'm meeting with publishers so that's terribly exciting). I have to say, I was recently on bedrest for two weeks and I really enjoyed catching up on all the fics here — you guys are all amazingly talented and weave such amazing stories for these two! Even with Downton ending I feel like so long as I have these fics to come back to, it won't be quite so bad. Also, thank you to Steph for beta'ing these chapters — and sorry I added some to this without telling you.

* * *

 ** _i. a star, a star dancing in the night_**

Snow fell silently around them as they walked back to their cottage, big wet flakes that gave the illusion of being inside a shaken snow globe. Elsie looked up at the night sky — so vast above her head that she nearly felt as though she were spinning. She slipped a bit — a patch of ice beneath the powdery snow — and Charles reached for her, pulling her upright.

"Careful, pet."

She cocked her head slightly, reaching up to straighten her hat, "Have you given me a little term of endearment, Charles Carson?"

He squinted at her in the darkness, "I — what did I say?"

"If I am to believe my ears, I think you called me _pet._ "

"Oh, well I—" he sputtered, his breath a plume of smoke before his face, "—I was afraid you were going to fall — slip on the ice and — I suppose it just _slipped_ —"

"You needn't apologize. I thought it was charming. I think I should like it if you _slipped_ more often."

He smiled, shaking his head lightly. A sudden giddiness rose up in her and she paused, reaching down to run her gloved fingers through the powdery snow. She was delighted to find that it was fresh and a bit sticky. He had continued lumbering up the path ahead of her, and just as he turned round to wonder where she'd disappeared to, she stood up, hiding her hands behind her back.

"Are you alright?" he frowned.

"Yes," she said evenly, biting her lip, "I've only — I've got to lace up my boot."

He nodded, coughing slightly, and turned to face away from her down the path — as though the slight lifting of her skirt was scandalous! _Daft, wonderful man_ she thought as she molded a snowball into her palm. She stared at it a moment before allowing a sudden childish provocation to overtake her — and she sent the snowball sailing down the path straight into the back of his coat.

He turned in one, swift motion upon his heels, his hands curling slightly at his sides. She pressed her lips together tightly and raised her eyebrows at him.

"I would have expected _better_ from you," he frowned, taking a step toward her. She wilted, her smile falling. As he drew closer still, his breath puffing out in a white plume in front of his face, she started to apologize, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed his lips to hers. She gasped when he pulled back, his eyes sparkling, "That was a _pitiable_ excuse for a snowball."

She stared at him a moment and then exhaled a sharp laugh as a playful wickedness flashed in his eyes. He knelt down ( _albeit slowly on creaking knees_ ) and began to run his gloved hands through the snow. She knelt down too, paying no mind to her skirts, and gathered up the snow in order that she might beat him to the pass.

He stood up and she looked up at him, her hair coming lose from beneath her hat and falling in long strands in front of her face.

"I'll give you a running start," he teased, tossing not one or two — _but three_ snowballs into the air, juggling them with care. She marveled a moment at his display, but then stood unsteadily, her eyes pleading.

"Have mercy on me, Mr Carson—" she said, biting back a laugh.

"Well!" he huffed, " 'twas _you_ that started it!" he said, a snowball falling from his hand and plopping unceremoniously onto the ground.

She was trapped now — but she was suddenly struck by a brilliant stratagem, "Those look perfect," she said slowly, "There's an art to it, I'm sure — how did you manage to get them so perfectly formed?"

Chuffed, he puffed out his chest, inspecting the snowballs carefully, "Well," he began, "It's all about the state of the snow — too much _slush_ and it will turn to ice, too _powdery_ and it will fall apart —"

As soon as he'd begun his litany, she took the opportunity to pick up her skirts and run by him down the path, skidding slightly as she did. He turned, raising his arm so that he might send the snowball flying down at the path at her back.

"Very cheeky!" he called, doubling his steps to catch up with her.

She whirled around, her hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. She wasn't young and did she ever feel the weight of her age as her steps slowed. Panting, she put her hands on her hips and waited for him to reach her.

"You didn't even try!" she called.

When he was just a few feet from her he waggled his eyebrows, "Never waste a perfect snowball on a moving target," he said, and with one graceful motion, he pelted her straight in the chest.

Mouth agape, she looked down to where the snow speckled her coat and scarf. When she looked up at him — his boyish, lopsided grin sparkling in the moonlight, she couldn't help but guffaw, throwing her head back and pressing her hand to her belly. Charles Carson was not a playful man as a rule — and seeing this side of him filled her with a new kind of love.

Letting their breathing settling, they meandered on toward their cottage — in their sights now, even as snow drifted in the path before them, their boots crunching against the ice beneath. As they reached the front door, he shoved his gloved hands into his pockets, struggling for the key. She turned from him to look up at the tremendous, dark sky above them. The north star shone brightly, winking down at her from somewhere she supposed might be heaven.

" _Star of wonder, star of night_ ," she sang, her voice rolling thick around the _r,_ swaying a bit as the snow fell down around her, " _Star with royal beauty bright_. . ."

" _Westward leading, still proceeding_ — ah ha!" he sung, fishing the key out of his pocket at last. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open, stomping snow off his boots and gesturing for her to go through, "After you. Go stand by the fire—your poor hands must be frozen."


	3. safe may we sleep beneath thy care

**A/N:** Perhaps you suspect that Christmas is an angst-ridden time of year for me. I _swear_ that these will get less angsty as we go on. The next one is about 1,000x worse than this one, but once they get out of their own heads and back to the festivities we'll get some proper fluff. Thank you for the lovely reviews and PMs, so nice to be welcomed here whenever I can pop in. It always feels like paying a visit to good friends. A meeeeeelion thankyous to Steph for beta'ing, because I actually do not understand punctuation at all.

* * *

 _ **iii. safe may we sleep beneath thy care.**_

She almost never had difficulty falling asleep, but she often woke in the middle of the night and found herself unable to fall _back_ asleep. Sometimes she would get up and make herself a cuppa, maybe read a few chapters of a book — tidy the kitchen if she was truly desperate. Now that the weather had grown colder, the days so long and dark, when these sleepless nights found her she stayed in bed, not wanting to leave its warmth.

Charles twitched lightly in his sleep, his head lolled toward her only slightly, enough so that she could see the gentle, thoughtful pursing of his lips as he dreamt. She sighed, letting her gaze fall to the window. Outside the bright winter moon set the sky aglow, casting shards of warm light across the bedroom floor. She rose slowly from bed, as though the moonlight was beckoning her. _Like a Welsh witch,_ she thought, rubbing her upper arms to warm them a bit as she tiptoed across the floor.

The moon, perfectly round and aglow ( _as she had never been_ ) seemed closer, as it often did in winter. Its presence in the sky made sleepless nights a bit less lonesome. She laid a hand against the chilled glass, her fingerprints leaving spots behind. She tipped her head slightly to inspect them; _proof that she'd been here_. What else had she to leave behind? She looked over her shoulder to the bed where Charles slept peacefully. She wondered for a moment if he was ever troubled that the Carson line would end with him.

Turning back to the window, she gazed out at the yard. The snow was coming down, but lighter than it had been on their walk home. But the snowflakes descended slowly, as though they were fighting against the air to find the earth. She glanced down at the window pane and found that the spots where her fingers had only just been had begun to disappear; the heat from her breath fogging up the glass and erasing her.

She thought of Anna; as rotund and luminous as the moon. She'd been flitting around the servant's hall with a sudden burst of energy and excitement that made Elsie reason the bairn would come any time; perhaps even while the moon was still full and inviting. Only a few sleeps 'till Christmas, and wouldn't a healthy bairn be the finest gift of all for the poor Bateses, with their worry etched on their youthful faces.

The girl had been so pleased — _oh,_ _to give her husband a child_! She'd tittered in the housekeeper's sitting room over a late afternoon cuppa just last week. _I'd give him the world if I could,_ she'd said, the steam from her teacup rising up and curling the tendrils of her flaxen hair, _but a child seems the closest thing to everything you could give the man you love._

Elsie sniffled — maybe it was from the draught of the window, but the lump in throat betrayed her. All the years that had passed her by, all the bairns she'd held on her knee, smiled at as she passed by them on her way into the village — their chubby fists rising up from their prams. The children underfoot in the houses she'd kept with their missing teeth and velveteen stuffed animals with limbs that always needed mending. Little girls crossing their ankles under taffeta and young lads with caps always slipping from their mops.

They never reminded her of Becky; these children were clean and well-mannered. These children were always within earshot, but took up no particular corner of her heart. She never disliked them ( _not even little Lady Mary with her darkness and her insolence_ ) but she never held fantasies of a brood of her own. By the time she'd arrived at Downton, even with Lady Sybil's cherubic grin to incite a rustling in her womb, it had been decades since she'd last stroked the downy softness of a bairn's crown. It was never that she lacked the gentleness; her hands mended dresses with great care. It was not that her voice couldn't have lent itself to storybooks and lullabies — with its rich, dulcet notes — only she had more important things to say, and she wanted so very much to be heard.

Still, whenever she looked at Anna, toddling through the servant's hall, the soft curve of her belly preceding her around corners, Elsie could not help but pause at what stirred ever so softly in her own. Something rattled about in the barrenness of her womb, and though she knew she was far beyond her fertile years, she found herself shrouded in a peculiar sadness.

It wasn't as though Anna was the first woman with child that she'd known, and at first she couldn't reckon why it was any different — certainly she had an affection for dear Anna, had perhaps even _mothered_ her a bit over the years — but her melancholy wasn't to do with her.

"Elsie?"

She turned toward the bed where Charles had pushed himself lazily upright. In the moonshine she could see a few curls had fallen onto his forehead. He looked at her sleepily, as though he wasn't yet sure if he'd managed to find his way out of a dream.

"Did I wake you?" she whispered, returning to the bed and lowering herself gently down, reaching up to push the hair from his eyes.

"My feet've gone cold," he rasped, "The bed gets a terrible chill when you're not in it."

She smiled sadly, a twinge somewhere deep inside reminding her that she wanted, desperately, to please him — to be a good wife, a good friend — _but something else._

"Why aren't you asleep?" he said, more fully awake. He leaned back against the headboard, cocking his head to examine her in the darkness.

"I woke and couldn't fall back asleep, that's all," she said wistfully, turning away from him.

"Shall I go downstairs and fetch you some warm milk?" he said sweetly, settling his hand atop her thigh. She shook her head, smiling gently.

"I think you must even _dream_ about butlering," she said, patting his hand.

"Well, I used to—" he yawned, "I regret to say that these days I sleep the sleep of the dead and, if I do dream, I do not recall them upon waking."

"What about in your waking hours?" she asked quietly, "Do you ever find yourself lost in a thought or a memory?" _Or a fantasy,_ she thought.

He thought a moment, then shook his head, "Perhaps when I was a youngster but — I hardly have the time to think of anything that doesn't require my immediate consideration."

She nodded, pursing her lips tightly.

"Do _you_?" he asked, stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"I was thinking about something Anna said to me," she said slowly, "How, if she could, she would give Mr Bates the world — she loves him so," she inhaled, tears brimming her eyes as she steadied her voice, "— and since she cannot give him the world, the only thing that felt commensurate was . . .giving him a _child_."

She exhaled, unable to look at him. She was thankful for the darkness of the room. After a moment, she felt him inhale a sigh — then, he reached for her hand again.

"Is that what's been waking you up in the night?" he asked, his voice low, "Because I would certainly hope you haven't been worrying that I am _bereft_ that we haven't a child." He gave her hand a squeeze, laughing gently, "First and foremost because we are certainly far too old. . ."

"I know," she whispered, "And it's _silly,_ really. I never fancied the idea of them — children, I mean — I had a taste of motherhood raising Becky. She's, in many ways, a child eternally. She'll always need me in the same way I imagine a child would need her mother. It's not that I feel I've missed out on the _experience_ — it's only that—" she flicked her gaze up at him, her eyes finding his, "I never understood . . .until Anna put it into words. . ."

She paused, licking her lips as she found her words, "Charles, I've nothing of the world to bring you. You married me and there was nothing that I could give you, that I could bring to the marriage — I haven't any money or property, no title or acclaim —" she laughed sadly, "I cannot even cook a proper meal to your liking—" she sighed, smoothing out a wrinkle in the bedclothes, "But if we were younger, I could have given you a child. I could have helped to carry on your bloodline. I'd've given you the world if I could."

The room was heavy with silence, and she felt her cheeks dampening as tears sprung, at last, from where they had been welling up. She reached a hand up to wipe them away, but his hand caught hers, gently bringing it to his lips.

"I _did_ think of our never-children once. . ." he said slowly, pressing his lips against the palm of her hand, "I was standing in the foyer awaiting His Lordship's motor and Nanny had brought the children down to visit with Lady Mary and Lady Edith in the drawing room. Mr Branson was on his way back from the village, so Miss Sybbie looked a little out of place. She must have slipped from the room because I felt a tug at my waistcoat and looked down to see her blinking up at me. I admit, for a moment, I was a bit taken aback — as she's grown up she has begun to look so very much like Lady Sybil. And just as precocious. She looked at me quite thoughtfully for several moments, as though she was formulating a question, and finally I said, " _May I be of help, Miss Sybbie?" —_ and she smiled at this, that sideways little grin just as her mother was so wont to wear, " _Mr Carthon,_ " said she, " _have you ever seen a_ _wal_ — a _wallus_?" It took me a moment but then I understood she meant to say _walrus._ I told her that I had not. Just then Nanny came bursting into the hall and apologized, but I assured her that Sybbie hadn't been bothering me. I did wonder, though, for half the day after, whyever she'd asked me if I'd seen a _walrus_ before."

Elsie laughed, her eyes sparkling, "She's darling."

"You see, after that I did find myself, I suppose, lost in my thoughts for a time. I did wonder if — if I had been graced with children of my own, if they would have been so quaint."

"I rather think all children are." Elsie said.

"Of course, my thoughts turned to you. To us — if only for a moment. I wondered if all little girls were as beautiful as their mothers. If all children were born knowing who their mothers are somehow, even if they'd never met them."

She whimpered, but only quietly. Reaching up to let her fingers rest prettily against her lips.

"I did try to imagine, then, if we'd had a daughter — would she have looked like you? Would she bite her lip in the way that you do? When she learned to walk would she move through life as though she were carrying the world upon her shoulders?" He leaned over, kissing her damp cheek and running a hand through her hair, "I've lived a long life, Elsie — some in this world which I understand, some in places that I'd rather forget. I have had enough money. I have worked in a great house, with esteemed colleagues. I have walked the London streets in my finery and had all manner of opportunities to _live._ Perhaps I did not raise children, but I did care very much for three young ladies. I was blessed to watch them grow up, marry and have children of their own. I watched the seasons change and with it everything else change too. We're hardly alive in the world that we were born into, and I know you have weathered the changes better than I — but don't you see? That's what you have given me. The one thing that nothing else has ever provided for me . . ."

Her breath hitched and she hiccuped back her tears. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, his gaze softening.

"Oh, Elsie —" he said, kissing her tenderly on the forehead, "The gift of _you_ is all the world to me."


	4. singing sweetly through the night

**A/N:** This headcanon of mine about Carson's mother is one that I haven't really played with before — made astronomical sense in this fic, but I'm not beholden to it so don't be surprised if in other fics it's not true, haha.

* * *

 _ **i. singing sweetly through the night**_

She sighed herself awake, the crackling of wood reminding her that he had stoked the fire in the night so that she wouldn't step out of the warmth of their bed into a frigid room. Smiling sleepily, she slid her hand across the covers and opened her eyes at once, startled to have not rested her hand upon the softness of his belly. She blinked more fully awake, looking toward her night table at the small clock — just after five, so they were hardly late. They didn't need to be up to the abbey until six-thirty these days, blessedly, as they each were finding it harder and harder to rouse themselves from the other's warmth.

Letting her eyes flutter closed, she attuned her ears to the din of their home, hoping to sharpen her hearing enough to detect his soft stirrings. Wherever he was, he was likely taking great pains not to wake her — no small task for a man so large as he. After a moment she heard the whistle of the kettle and smiled as she opened her eyes.

Padding down the hall, she tightened her housecoat round herself, bracing against the draught at the top of the stairs, which groaned beneath her weight as she descended them.

He hadn't heard her — or else he was so engrossed in his task that he decided not to turn around when she appeared downstairs. She squinted, taking a few more steps into the room, close enough that she could hear the low notes of his singing.

" _And the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains_ —"

She cleared her throat slightly to join him on the _Gloria_ — a cascade of notes that started high in her head and swung down through her chest and into the hollow of her belly. At the sound of her sleepy voice, he turned, a wide grin spreading across his face.

"All those years standing next to you in church and I only realized of late what a lovely voice you have," he said, turning back to the stove where he was warming a few slices of bread, the fixings for a fine breakfast set out on the countertops.

"I could say the same about yours but Lord knows anyone could hear it a half-mile from the churchyard!" she laughed, yawning widely as she cozied up next to him at the sideboard.

"Did you fall back asleep last night?" he asked, tentatively pressing a finger into the bread as it warmed in the skillet.

"Yes," she said, looping her arm around his and resting her cheek against his shoulder, "I hope I didn't keep you awake with my _flanneling_. . ."

He shook his head, popping a cube of ham into his mouth, "Not at all — though, I must admit, I did have some rather charming dreams about dark haired little children frolicking underfoot. . ."

She stiffened, but only for a moment — part of her had hoped that the conversation of children had not happened at all — surely he'd've put a stop to such sentimentality before it properly started . . .

"Oh?" she asked, reaching across his body to pilfer a slice of cheese from the cutting board.

"I would hate for you to think I perceive it as mawkish," he said, grasping the slice of bread between the pads of two fingers and quickly turning it, "Much the same way I feel about venturing into the past, I believe _might-have-beens_ to be perfectly fine to visit, but I wouldn't want to take root there."

She chewed slowly, mostly so that she wouldn't have to respond straight away. Before she even had time to formulate a response, he spoke again.

"I should not think there is anything untoward about merely _wondering_ ," he sighed, "It seems expected, particularly for an older woman—"

She shot him a look, "Tread lightly _,_ _Mr Carson_ —"

He held up his hands, "I mean no harm! But we're getting on, aren't we? Both of us? The children we knew are no longer children — rather, they _have_ children. We've watched the world change, go to war and back again — though not without stealing a few souls. When one reaches a certain age I think it's only right that to muse upon the life that's been had — and, so it may be, the lives one did not have."

He reached for a slab of butter, dropping it into the hot skillet. It sizzled, the scent wafting up and making Elsie realize how hungry she was now that she was awake. She scurried around to the other side of him, tapping the freshly made toast, testing to see if it was too warm to lay flat against her hand.

" _Elsie_ ," he grumbled, "For heaven's sake, use a plate. You're not a _heathen_."

She smirked, taking a defiant bite of her toast as she opened the cupboard to find a few small dishes for their breakfast. As she closed the cabinet, she sighed, wondering for a moment if she ought to respond to his thoughts or simply let them drift — one of thousands of unfinished conversations they'd had over the years.

Again, it was he who broke the silence, deciding for her.

"I was thinking about it this morning, before I rose from bed. . ." he said slowly, looking at her sidelong, "The mere fact that you would have given me a child, had it been possible, means a great deal to me. I suppose it hadn't exactly crossed my mind until you had said it plainly, but I cannot think of a more selfless offering of love."

She furrowed her brow a bit, "I wouldn't say it's all that selfless an act," she said, "You _do_ know how bairns come about, don't you?"

He waggled his eyebrows at her, "I _do_ — and I don't mean so much in the making, but the bringing forth and the raising. It's no small thing. . ." he paused, looking at his hands a moment before gently rubbing his knuckles, which hated the cold. "I suppose I never told you that my mother died in childbirth."

She blinked, then reached slowly for his hand.

"I did not know, you never said —"

"No, I do not often think of it," he said quietly, "Even as a boy I found myself striving to make her proud — wherever she was — because she gave the ultimate sacrifice so that I may have a chance at life."

"Oh _Charles_ ," Elsie said softly, reaching up to gently caress his cheek.

"My father was. . .a very unhappy man. And why wouldn't he be? Torn between having a son at last — but having lost the woman he loved in the process. He tried, very hard, not to blame me — but it was difficult for him to ever look upon me without seeing her." He shrugged, returning his attention to the skillet, "I went to the workhouse rather young, arrived at Thrushcross Grange at fourteen," he sighed, "I've never known a life outside of service, really. But it's been a very good one. I have been quite fortunate. All because of my mother's willingness to bring me here, whatever the cost."

He looked down at her, with her blue eyes wide, taking him in — all of him, the man before her with his gray hair and lined face, the dashing young footman, the spindly frightened hallboy, the child who loved the silence of spring and the blue-eyed baby who stole his mother's heart away.

 _And she loved him._

"You dear, sweet man," she whispered, her fingers hovering prettily in front of her lips as she studied him — how could she have known him, _but not really known him_ , all these years? How could she have known his life without knowing how it began?

"When I think of how you would've risked your life in order that you might give me a child," he said, shaking his head lightly, "I marvel at it, really. The courage — the true grit a woman must possess when she sets about bearing children. A man may go to war, but he fights an enemy outside of himself — not within. He fights in love for his country, but not of another human being."

She listened in rapt attention, watching as strands of never-formed memories danced across his gaze.

"I am quite touched that you would have offered up your very life to bear my children," he murmured, "Not to mention be tasked with raising the little _scoundrels_."

He looked at her a bit sheepishly, as though he'd laid bare too much of his heart on a single breath.

"I would have—happily in fact," she said, gently grasping his arm and leaning down to find his gaze, "And it delights me to think that you would have wanted a child born of me," she bit her lip, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes, "They may not have been the most comely children. Perhaps they would have been a bit more rambunctious than you'd prefer — but _aye_ , they would be canny, kind and spirited." She reached up to take his face between her hands, looking him straight in the eye, "And so very much loved."

His eyes had gone a bit damp, his gaze softened. He reached a hand to her hair, smoothing along the dips of her smooth plait.

"Would you have been afraid?" he asked, wincing a bit.

She hummed along a smile, rising up on her bare toes so that she might kiss him squarely.

"No," she said against his warm mouth, "I was always a bold lass, Charles — but you have made me brave."


	5. above all this bustle you'll hear

**A/N:** I feel like baby!Bates is going to be born on New Year's, so this clearly isn't what I expect in canon, but by jove this isn't a New Year's fic, it's a blasted Christmas fic! _Humbug._

* * *

 _ **ii. above all this bustle you'll hear**_

As was usually the case, they heard Mrs Patmore before they saw her as they entered the servant's hall. Charles gave her a look as he helped her out of her coat, draping it over his arm as he headed down to his pantry. Elsie sighed, tapping self-consciously at her hair before stepping into the kitchen, a rush of hot air making her eyes water.

"Get out, get out, _get out_!" Mrs Patmore fumed, swatting a hallboy with her dishrag. The poor lad had made the mistake of ogling a kitchen maid, thereby being much in the way of both Daisy and Mrs Patmore, who were orbiting around one another each hefting pots, pans and trays of decadent food.

"I'm — I'm sorry, Mrs Patmore!" the poor boy stuttered as he backed away from her, backing straight into a hapless kitchen maid who was holding a precariously stacked dish of sugar cookies; many of which went scattering across the floor.

"If you don't get out of here in two shakes of a lamb's tail I'll have your bollocks for giblets, do ye understand?" Mrs Patmore roared, sweat drenching her collar. The boy nodded and turned, running past Mrs Hughes as he escaped at last the cook's wrath.

"I would scold you for your crass language, Mrs Patmore, but I am feeling festive on this Christmas Eve day and have elected to pretend I did not hear it," Mrs Hughes said, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "What can I do to help?"

Mrs Patmore looked up, blowing a few strands of hair from her eyes, "You can corral all the bloody hallboys, for one," she huffed, "And take _that_ bloody thing down!"

Mrs Hughes followed her gaze up to the entryway to the servant's hall where a sprig of mistletoe had found its way to the molding.

"Ah, I see," Mrs Hughes said, "No wonder the kitchen has become such a _destination_."

"From now until _New Year's_ I don't want anyone to set foot in here unless they're under my charge, do you hear me Mrs Hughes?" Mrs Patmore blustered, wiping her forearm across her forehead.

"What are you doing, daft girl!"

Mrs Patmore and Mrs Hughes both looked over at Daisy, hands on her hips, chiding one of the kitchen maids.

"Plucking the —"

"The goose, I know what you're doing, but you're doing it _wrong_!" Daisy said, leaning over and showing the girl the proper form, "Like _this_ , yeah?"

The girl nodded, copying Daisy's instructions.

Mrs Hughes raised her eyebrows, leaning in to Mrs Patmore's ear conspiratorially, "I know the lass got her teaching certification and will leave us in the spring, but do you think all these years under your tutelage have made her a bit of a hard nut?"

Mrs Patmore beamed at her young charge, pleased as punch by the girl's no-nonsense attitude.

"I couldn't be prouder if she were me own daughter," she said, returning to the vegetables she was peeling, "She'll have the best behaved class in all of Yorkshire, mark my words."

Mrs Hughes smiled, giving the kitchen another look about before deciding she'd be more hassle than help if she lingered.

"Do let me know if I can be of help, Mrs Patmore. I'll be in my sitting room."

"No you bloody well _won't_ ," Mrs Patmore scoffed, giving her friend a look.

Mrs Hughes only blinked.

"You'll be in yer husband's pantry. That's where I always find you."

Mrs Hughes blushed, "Well, maybe sometimes but — certainly not today. I've gifts to wrap," she said, heading out the door, but she called back to her a warning, "So you better well _knock first_ if you do come looking for me."

Mrs Patmore chuckled, elbowing Daisy as they watched the housekeeper sashay on down the hall, "Well, we all know to do _that_ now don't we, Daisy?"

* * *

He closed his hand around the cool sterling silver in his palm. He'd been anxiously awaiting the holiday since the item arrived from the engravers several weeks prior. He'd hidden its small box away in his desk, peeking in at it whenever he sat down, beaming with pride at the gift he'd procured for his wife. Holding it in his hand now, the metal warmed to his touch and he smiled.

A brief knock on his door, which he recognized as hers, flustered him and he grumbled, shoving it back into his drawer just as she stuck her head into the room.

"I thought I ought to make you aware that Mrs Patmore has banished us all from the kitchen," she said, stepping into the room and gently closing the door behind her.

"Only today or — _indefinitely_?" Charles asked, folding his hands atop his stomach and leaning back in his chair.

Elsie smirked, "Until New Year's, just to be safe."

"Well," he said, reaching up to scratch the corner of his mouth, "Perhaps we should attain some rations from the store cupboard."

"Whatever do you mean?" Elsie said, lowering herself into a nearby chair, "We've plenty at home."

"But no _biscuits_ ," he whined, and if she didn't know him so well she'd've sworn he pouted for a moment.

"Charles, I hardly think we'll wont for biscuits. After all— it's Christmas."

He smiled, reaching across the desk to extend his hand to her. She slipped hers into his, curling her fingers around his. They sat for a moment in companionable silence before a rather loud clattering startled them both. TheY rose in unison, making for the door, but were stopped by a voice.

"Mr Carson!" came a voice, followed by Daisy's head bobbing into view as the door flew open, "You'd better come quick."

"What is it, Daisy?" Mrs Hughes asked, her hand having flown to her chest, her heart beating erratically beneath her palm.

"It's Anna," Daisy said, a little smile tugging at her lips, "I think she's going to have the baby."

"Now? _Here_?" Carson said, indignantly. Mrs Hughes smirked, resting her hand upon his arm.

"More than likely _not,_ Mr Carson," she said, "These things don't typically happen all that swiftly; though, if it is time we'll certainly have some shuffling to do— missing a valet _and_ a Lady's Maid— and on _Christmas_ no less."

Charles heaved a mighty sigh, "Terribly inconvenient, babies."

"Oh, don't _crow_ , Mr Carson. It's lovely and wonderful — a wee Christmas miracle."

" _What did I tell you boys about loitering in here?!_ " bellowed Mrs Patmore, her voice nearly shaking the rafters, " _You've got about five seconds to beat feet or I'll see to it that you don't make it to 1926!_ "

Carson shuddered, "Perhaps it will even fill Mrs Patmore with Christmas cheer."

The clattering of pots and pans continued, and the thunder of feet racing down the hall beyond Carson's pantry reminded them that they were now operating in full-blown chaos.

"I don't think we're allotted more than one miracle," she said, "Though perhaps the Lord will take pity on us."

"Or Saint Nicholas," he said, straightening his waistcoat as he moved to open the door, waiting for her to go through, "I think we've both been very good this year."

"Well," she purred as she passed by him, rising up to kiss him quickly, "Good _enough._ "


	6. god imparts to human hearts

**A/N:** Well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, right? I'm sorry I've completely lost track of this little festive fic. I was traveling all last week and as some of you know, am now quite "officially" writing a book. In the sense that I've a publisher waiting on a manuscript — I've a year to complete it but, as to be expected with any remarkable life change, I suppose the fics will get away from me from time to time. But I'll update as often as I can — trust me, I'll go mad if I don't get out some pent-up smut energy on the fanfic playground once in a while! Hope you all have a marvelous holiday and happy, healthy new year!

* * *

 ** _i. God imparts to human hearts_**

 _Christmas Eve 1899_

Mrs Hughes — as she was so called now, this last year having seen her rise from the rank of head housemaid to housekeeper, earning her a loveless marriage and thusly, a new name — gently stroke the sprig of holly that she'd placed upon her desk. She plucked a berry from the branch and dropped it onto her desk, rolling it beneath her finger as she let her mind wander. She'd finished the accounts, finalized the menus days ago — and was swiftly ahead of schedule and under budget for the holiday and the coming year. Her Ladyship had been quite pleased (in her vague, heavy-lidded way) and thus, the housekeeper thought perhaps she'd turn in early, knowing the morn would come soon enough with the young ladies barreling down over the stairs at first light to see what Saint Nicholas had left.

The eldest of the daughters, Lady Mary, was all of eight years old but would have liked the world to think she was eighteen. A proper young lady with dark, intense features and a steely gaze, she was something of an unsettling child. The middle sister, Edith, was fair-haired, sullen and a year younger than her elder sister — a cavernous distance between the two that had them consistently at odds. Edith was a bit plain, at least compared to her more severe sisters, but she had a kind heart and was very bright. Mrs Hughes was never certain if no one worried after Edith because they felt she'd persevere, or if she was just entirely unnoticed.

The youngest, little Lady Sybil, was only four. In fact, Mrs Hughes remembered the day of her birth quite vividly. She'd not been at Downton more than a few months and the youngest Crawley's birth was highly anticipated. Of course everyone had been on tenterhooks wondering if the third child of the Crawleys would, at last, be a son and a proper heir. She was not — though she was a perfect beauty and, if Mrs Hughes were honest, had quickly become the sweetheart of upstairs and down.

She'd never paid much mind to children one way or another, but whenever Lady Sybil trotted downstairs for a biscuit, or just to toddle along after the maids, Mrs Hughes couldn't help but smile. And now that she was housekeeper, with a sitting room of her own, she'd made sure to always have a few sweeties tucked away in her top drawer, and a small stack of Peter Rabbit books at child-height next to her desk.

Remembering this, she reached over and opened the draw to her left, rummaging around to see if her stockpile of candies had diminished. She found, much to her delight, a peppermint at the tips of her fingers. Just as she pulled it from the drawer and deposited it onto her desk, she was roused by a knock at her parlor door.

"Come in—?" she said, slightly more a question than a command.

"I don't wish to disturb you, Mrs Hughes — I saw that you were still awake and thought perhaps you'd join me for a glass of sherry on this Christmas Eve."

She smiled at Mr Carson, who glided into her sitting room, a tray in hand, and soundlessly set it down on her small table.

"I'd be delighted," she said, rising and running her hands over her skirts, "I've just the thing to go with it," she breezed by him, resisting the sudden strange urge to rest her hand on his forearm, "Lay out the glasses, I'll be back in a breath."

She skittered out of her sitting room, the heels of her boots echoing down the long, dark hallway toward the kitchen. She knew Mrs Patmore — the new cook — had been baking biscuits all day, tray after tray of them being pulled from the hot stove and settled into decorative tins and plates. She'd purloined a small satchel of shortbreads for herself, but taken by Mr Carson's generosity in sharing his wine, she supposed she ought to share.

Just as she came round the corner she started to see a small, flaxen-haired girl sitting in the middle of the servant's hall, all alone at the long, oak table, curled over a steaming cup of tea.

"Oh, Anna!" she said, pressing her hand to her chest, "You frightened me!"

The small girl rose quickly, nearly tripping over the bench as she did so, "I'm sorry Mrs Hughes, only, I couldn't sleep, and I thought maybe tea would —"

Mrs Hughes held up her hand to quiet her, "I wouldn't dream of scolding you on Christmas Eve," she said, taking a few tentative steps toward the girl. Anna had been her first hire as housekeeper. In the spring, just after she'd been made housekeeper, Her Ladyship had accompanied her into the village to meet the newest graduates of the village school ***** — a handful of bright young women who were just old enough to work but with several more years before marriage would tempt them away.

Anna Smith, with her large, thoughtful blue eyes and long straw-colored plait, had not in fact been a student of the village school. She was, however, clever enough to know that it was there that young girls got the chance to be snapped up for employment at the large country homes — something she wanted quite desperately.

Cora spoke briefly to the schoolmarm as Mrs Hughes stepped outside into the late afternoon sun. She watched the girls tittering about in the yard, straightening the bows in each other's hair and stuffing books into their knapsacks. She glanced across the yard and caught Anna staring quite purposefully at her. Knowing she'd been caught out, Anna flushed as the refined housekeeper quicker her steps across the yard to the girl.

"I don't believe you were inside the school house," Mrs Hughes said, examining the girl closely, "Are you a student?"

Anna thought to lie, but could not. She shook her head and said nothing.

"Surely you're of the age, though. You cannot be more than fifteen."

"Thirteen and a half, ma'am," Anna said softly, "I'm just the right age to be a scullery maid — I know that you're here to look at the girls — for work — and I would do well — I've been a scullery maid, you see, and I'm a good worker," Anna felt her breath waning, " — and I don't have any interest in getting married, maybe ever, I could stay on for a very long time."

Mrs Hughes pressed her lips together to hide the smile that tugged at her lips. The girl was clearly bright and endearing. She noticed immediately, too, that unlike the schoolgirl's she'd met earlier in the day who had done little more than help their mother's cook and sew, the girl before her had calloused hands, dirty knees and dark circles under her bright eyes. The girl was not lying about working in service, of that she was certain.

"Do you have references?" Mrs Hughes said, folding her hands neatly in front of her middle, her fingers grazing the cool metal of her chatelaine.

"I do," Anna said, and before Mrs Hughes could make a request, the girl pulled a thick envelope from her frock's pocket.

"My, my, you're very well-prepared," Mrs Hughes said, taking the envelope from the girl's shaking hands, "You've family in Yorkshire, then?"

The girl hesitated, "I'm staying with my aunt."

Mrs Hughes saw the flicker of pain in the girl's eyes and opted not to question any further; not in the village anyhow.

"Well —" she squinted at the papers in her hands, "Anna, I am most impressed. I shall take your references and my interest to Her Ladyship. I think you could do quite well at Downton Abbey."

Anna lifted her gaze, "Oh, thank you ma'am, I would be most pleased."

"My name is Elsie Hughes," she said, leaning down close to Anna, "And I'm sure we'll meet again, dear."

And that they had — Anna had been hired before the summer was out and had proven straight away to be a delightful and capable little maid. Mrs Hughes was, however, always aware of a sadness that clung to the girl like a fog and while she did not suspect she could do anything to allay it, she did often watch Anna work from the far corner of the room and clench her hands against the urge to soothe the girl's hair.

"There's no shame in being homesick, Anna," Mrs Hughes said, "Especially at Christmas."

Anna looked up sharply, "I'm not homesick," she said with a firmness that Mrs Hughes had never heard from the otherwise mousy girl.

"Oh, well, I see," Mrs Hughes said. A strange silence passed between them before she lowered herself onto the far end of the bench from Anna, "Shall I warm your tea for you, dear? I've only popped out to retrieve a few biscuits, but I'm happy to put a kettle on."

Anna shook her head, standing abruptly, "No thank you, Mrs Hughes. I should be going up now."

Mrs Hughes watched as Anna's pale, delicate hands reached for her teacup, which shook against its saucer.

"Go on up, Anna, I'll take care of that," she said gently. Anna paused, then set the saucer and cup down, wiping her hands against her apron.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes. I'll say goodnight."

"Anna —?" Mrs Hughes said softly as the girl skittered off toward the hall, "Come with me for just a moment, would you please?"

Anna nodded obediently and followed Mrs Hughes into the kitchen, watching as the housekeeper reached up and pushed a few tins aside, revealing a cloth napkin, inside of which were several shortbread biscuits.

"Here," Mrs Hughes said, holding one out to Anna, "You won't tell?"

Anna grinned, taking the biscuit from her, "Not a soul, Mrs Hughes. Thank you."

Mrs Hughes chuckled softly, "There you are then, now go on to bed. Saint Nicholas won't come if you're pottering around. . ."

She watched a moment as Anna disappeared into the darkness of the hall, then wrapped up her stash of biscuits and headed back to her sitting room.

"Kind of you to share, Mr Carson," she said as she shut the door behind her, "I thought it only fair I share my treat with you."

He perked up, watching as her delicate fingers unfolded the napkin and revealed the shortbreads, "Oh, my — well, that's very kind of you. I hope you don't mind, I went ahead and poured us each a glass. It's a cream sherry, I hope you'll approve?"

Mrs Hughes shrugged as she plucked up a biscuit, "I'm sure it will be a delight, Mr Carson, and in any event your company is pleasant enough."

She took a bite of her biscuit and looked up, surprised by the sweet look on his face. The stodgy old butler had certainly shown her some kindness, but this was a more golden gaze than simple pleasantries.

Her parlor was alight with candles and a few gas lamps, all of which were glimmering low near the end of their wicks. They sipped in silence for a few blissful minutes, until she heard him clear his throat.

"Mrs Hughes, I know you have been at Downton for several years now, and have seen a few Christmases here — but not as housekeeper. Thus, you may not know that often the upper staff impart small gifts to one another."

She blinked, pressing a few stray cookie crumbs between her lips, "I thought as much — but I was thinking I'd wait until Boxing Day to give you yours."

It was Carson's turn to blink then, and she only smirked at him, popping the last bite of biscuit into her mouth.

"Erm, well, that would be fine too but — I rather wanted to give you yours tonight, if you would not be opposed?"

She bit her lip, reaching for her sherry, "Well now, it wouldn't be terribly festive of me to decline now would it?"

He gave her a small grin, reaching into the pocket of his jacket, "It's only a small token, but a useful one, I think. One befitting of a housekeeper in any case."

She held up a finger signaling him to wait and rose from her seat, dashing across the room to her desk so that she might receive the small, brown-paper wrapped parcel meant for him.

"There," she said, handing it to him, "Now we may proceed."

Each attending to their gifts, the only sound in the room was that of the crackling fire and the crinkling of paper. It was she who first sighed appreciatively.

"Oh, Mr Carson, how lovely," she said, lifting the tiny pair of silver sewing scissors from the box.

"I happened to notice that you did not have a pair upon your chatelaine. I suppose I had not considered it before but when you inherited the former housekeeper's keys you did not, in turn, inherit her other bits and bobs. You've to acquire your own."

"That I do," she laughed, reaching down to fasten them to her hip, "Thank you kindly, Mr Carson, what a very thoughtful gift."

"You're quite welcome," he said, turning the book he'd unwrapped over in his hands, squinting at the lettering. When he realized what it was that he held, he gave her a rather surprised look — his eyebrows nearly touching his brow, " _Edwin Drood._ . .it was Dickens' last novel before his death."

"I hope you haven't already read it," she said quietly, and though he couldn't be entirely certain in the low light of the room, the sound of her voice made him think she had begun to blush.

"I have not, but it's been on my list for quite some time," he said, "However did you know?"

She shrugged, "I've only noticed that you like to read and I suppose the rest was just good luck."

He studied her a moment — she was a pretty woman, really. Not as severe as the ladies he was accustomed to laying a careful eye upon upstairs. Mrs Hughes—as she was now so-called— was a far more subtle beauty, and perhaps most importantly, her genuine and kind nature, matched with a sharp wit and graceful instinct made her radiate with a unseen, but not unfelt, elegance.

"Mr Carson?"

He blinked, realizing a moment too soon that she'd caught his lingering gaze.

"I shouldn't keep you any longer," he said, rising to take his leave, "Tomorrow will be an early day set to end late and we'll both need our rest. I have much enjoyed our time together this evening, Mrs Hughes, and I cannot wait to begin this novel. A very thoughtful gift indeed."

She rose from the table as well, a bit startled by his sudden departure, "And thank you, Mr Carson. Your gift is just what I needed. And I should say, too, that your company this evening has been most enjoyed. I do hope you'll think of me when you've a drop of sherry to spare in the future?"

He turned back to her just slightly, his hand gripping the doorknob. She bit her lip, pulling it beneath her teeth and around what he knew would have been a blissful smile, if she'd only afford herself.

"I shall, Mrs Hughes. Most certainly, I shall."

* * *

 *** I quite recently read a bit about how girls were brought into service during this era and, in fact, more often than not the lady of the house and the housekeeper would go to the nearby schools at the end of term and look for girls who may be a good fit for service. The girls' families were often in support of this recruitment because they weren't quite yet old enough to marry, and it was just so well that they worked somewhere where they could learn to cook, clean and mend — thus, in fact, priming them to be even more sought-after wife material.**

 **I have a little headcanon about Anna, then, and it's not really possible in canon but it would make for an interesting pre-series fic. One that I've not time to write but. . .well, I always did wonder about how she ended up at Downton, after all she'd been through in her youth.**


	7. no crib for a babe

"Any news from the front?" Charles asked, whirling around as he passed Elsie on the servant's hall stairs.

"She's doing well — it'll be a while yet," she said, trying to catch her breath, "I've only come for fortification in the form of tea and biscuits."

"You could've rung, I'd've gladly sent up a tray," he said.

Elsie sighed, then leaned up to kiss his cheek, "I think you'd do best to avoid the hall outside Lady Mary's room, Mr _Carson_. At least until the worst of it has passed."

Charles furrowed his brow, "I've been here for the birth of more children than you, Mrs _Hughes_."

"Perhaps," she said, "But never in the thick of it."

Charles shrugged, continuing on upstairs and Elsie only shook her head at her silly man as she continued on toward the kitchen.

"If it's a girl do you think she'll name her after Lady Mary?" Daisy asked wistfully as she kneaded bread. Mrs Patmore scoffed, lifting a bread tin from the oven.

"What's it matter?" she said, tossing a rag over her shoulder.

"I dunno," Daisy mused, "I just wondered if maybe they'd go for something a little more modern, that's all."

Mrs Patmore looked up just as Elsie rounded the corner into the sweltering kitchen.

"Well, ask the _midwife_ over here," Mrs Patmore laughed, reaching up to wipe her brow, "Daisy here's wondering if the Bates' have a name picked out."

Elsie blinked, "I — well, I'm not sure. Right now I'd say all they're worried about is getting the bairn here safely," she said, smoothing her skirt anxiously, "I wonder, Mrs Patmore, if you might prepare us a tea tray? I don't think Mr Bates has eaten in several hours and Lady Mary's beginning to look a little peckish."

"I'll send _'er_ up when we're done," Mrs Patmore said, gesturing to Daisy, "Then she can ask about the baby's name 'erself."

* * *

"I really think —perhaps — I ought not do this," Anna panted, gripping the post of the bed as Dr. Clarkson laid a gentle hand on her abdomen.

"You're a bit beyond changing your mind, I'm afraid," Lady Mary said, taking Anna's hand in hers, "You're in the worst of it now, but that only means that soon you'll have your baby in your arms and everything will seem perfectly marvelous."

Anna groaned, "Somehow I doubt that."

Dr. Clarkson gave Lady Mary a knowing look, "Everything's progressing nicely. She's almost fully dilated," he turned back to Anna, "You'll be able to start pushing soon."

From the other side of the bed, John made a slightly strangled sound.

"Don't tell me that after _all_ you've been through that the thought of your wife giving birth to your child is horrifying you, Bates," Mary said, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"Only insofar as I hate to see her suffering," he said quietly.

Mary sighed, looking at her hands, "Well, I _do_ know that to be true."

Just then, Mrs Hughes came blustering back into the room, Daisy and a tea tray in tow.

"There, I've brought reinforcements," she said, clapping her hands together, "How're you feeling, Anna?"

"I'm rethinking this arrangement," Anna said, gritting her teeth, "I think perhaps I have very poor judgment and I shouldn't be a mum at all,"

Elsie sat down at the foot of the bed and settled her hand on Anna's leg beneath the bedclothes, "I shouldn't like to hear you speak that way about yourself, but since I know you aren't thinking clearly, I'll allow it to go unpunished."

Anna writhed, burying her face in the pillows.

"I'd say she feels as though she's being punished," Lady Mary said, rising from the bed and going to her vanity where she sat and admired herself a moment before reaching for a small tub of cold cream for her hands.

"Mr Bates," Daisy said meekly from the corner, "Can I make you some tea?"

"Yes, Daisy, thank you kindly," he said, not taking his eyes off Anna.

"And Mrs Patmore's sent up sandwiches for you. . ."

"That'll do, Daisy, thank you," he said, though he was far away, running a damp cloth along Anna's brow.

Mrs Hughes, suddenly feeling a bit useless, looked about the room, surveying it for a moment and was struck with a sudden realization.

"M'lady, beg my pardon but —" she looked up, cocking her head thoughtfully as she settled her hands into her lap, "Have we got a cradle for the bairn?"

The room went quiet, Lady Mary pausing in the gentle massage of her hands to look up at the housekeeper with a look of abject horror.

"Oh dear," she said quietly, "I think everyone's gone into storage in the attics — none of the children sleep in a crib anymore, certainly nothing smaller."

"We've a proper crib at our cottage," Bates said, "But of course that's there and we're. . .well, _here."_

Feeling repurposed, Mrs Hughes stood up, a thought hovering on her lips, "Daisy, when you're done with Mr Bates' tea please meet me in my sitting room. I've to talk to Mr Carson but I think I've just the solution."

"I do hope it doesn't involve a dresser drawer," Lady Mary laughed, returning to Anna's bedside. Mrs Hughes gave a small nod before taking her leave,

"A trough in a stable was good enough for the baby Jesus, m'lady — and I assure you that we can do better than that. Mr Carson would stand for no less."


	8. here we are as in olden days

**A/N: Happy Christmas to you and yours! x A few more drabbles up until New Year's but none will hold a candle to the final episode so perhaps I'll not even bother! ;)**

* * *

"Elsie, I say this with the utmost regard and respect for you — you are my wife, and I love you dearly," Charles said, his voice low and steady as they stood face to face in her sitting room, "But what you are proposing is _ludicrous."_

"Times are changing — and fast, Charles. It's not at all ludicrous. In fact, it's entirely practical — especially since we've a very limited time to come up with a solution. And as I said, Lady Mary wouldn't settle for a dresser drawer."

Carson frowned, "Nor would I — if the child in question was _hers._ "

"Well, there's not an empty dresser to be found, Charles, so it's either you and Andy go up to the attics and pull down a cradle for the nursery or you can send them on a Christmas Eve panty-raid — _what say you_?"

Flustered, Carson bumbled a bit before finally sighing — relenting to his wife's proposition.

"Very well," he said slowly, "But I hardly think Lady Mary will acquiesce to the infant being in the nursery."

"Whyever not? Elsie scoffed, "That's the purpose of it — and it's only for a night or two so that Anna can rest before she and Mr Bates return home. She's having a rough go of it and she'll be exhausted. The least we can do is afford her a bit of proper rest and it doesn't make any sense of us to watch over the babe _downstairs_ if she's settled into Lady Mary's room. You've got to think in kind terms, Charles. Sometimes the standards of Downton Abbey must bend to its human occupants."

Charles sighed, "I am not unfeeling. I'm not a Scrooge."

She looked up at him gently, cupping his face in her warm hands, "Of course you aren't, my darling. And a wee bit of Christmas spirit is just the ticket if we're ever going to get through this very, very long winter's night."

* * *

Dr. Clarkson dried his hands on a towel next to the basin on Lady Mary's dresser and gave her a small shrug, "Everything is progressing normally. There's really no reason for you to be quite so fraught, milady."

Mary shifted uncomfortably in her seat, "I know I'm being silly, but I cannot help but think of dear Sybil. Perhaps because it is nearly Christmas but — well, any time a child is born in this house it's marred somehow. As though her spirit is here."

"I wouldn't think it a bad thing if she were," Dr. Clarkson said calmly, "The children here are happy and healthy, are they not? Perhaps they are under her watchful eye. And so too will the Bates' child."

Mary gave him a thoughtful smile, "I should like to believe you, Dr. Clarkson. Very much."

He looked over to the bed where John was holding Anna's hand, having not left her side. She seemed unaware of everything happening in the room around her; her gaze focused straight ahead with raw determination.

"Milady?"

Lady Mary looked up to see Mrs Hughes in the doorway. The housekeeper stepped inside, pushing a few fallen strands of hair from her eyes.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes — you've found a solution to our little problem?"

"I think so, milady. If you'd not be opposed, I've asked Mr Carson and Andy to bring one of the cradles down from the attics — and, if you see fit, settle it into the nursery so as to be closer to Anna until she is properly rested and ready to go home. Of course I will look after the babe as needed, but it seemed a bit much to take the babe downstairs to let Anna rest, particularly as she will be nursing."

"Of course, Mrs Hughes," Mary said as she stood, "That makes perfect sense to me."

"We don't want to impose—" John said.

"It's hardly an imposition," Mary said, "It's only suitable that the child is there whenever Anna is here, particularly until the child is weaned."

"I shall inform Mr Carson of your consent," Mrs Hughes said, but as she turned to go she was stopped by the sharp cry of Anna's voice.

"No, Mrs Hughes, stay — please?"

Mrs Hughes blinked, unsure of what to do. Mary softened, taking a few steps toward her and settling her cool hand onto the housekeeper's arm, "I shall inform Carson. It will likely settle him to hear it coming straight from me. I am to assume you had quite a time convincing him that it would be suitable for the child to be in the nursery at all."

Mrs Hughes gave her a grateful glance, "You know him very well, milady."

Mary gave her a small smile then continued on out into the hall. Mrs Hughes gathered up her skirts and quickened her steps to Anna's side, sitting at the lower end of the bed. John held one of Anna's hands, and Mrs Hughes the other.

Together, they waited.

* * *

"I dunno if I _ever_ want a baby," Daisy said, pulling a piping hot tin of biscuits from the oven. Mrs Patmore laughed, tossing a handful of flour onto the countertop.

"Daisy, you've not even got a _beau._ "

"But I might — again, one day. . ." Daisy whispered, looking down at the gold band she wore which always glistened in the low light of the servant's quarters, "Lady Mary fell in love again, d'in't she? Maybe I will, and I'll get married to a nice man and be a teacher — and we'll have a little house of our own, like Anna and Mr Bates, and we'll have some children," she stopped, looking up at Mrs Patmore intensely, "Do you think I'd be a good mum, though? I dunno anything about it, really. I never had a mum of me own to learn from."

Mrs Patmore paused in her kneading of dough, looking up at the young woman. Daisy had just been a slip of a girl when she arrived at Downton as a kitchen maid. A good little worker, but prone to tears at the beginning. That much Mrs Patmore remembered. But the girl was sweet and bright — even when she was underfoot or going through the pains of growing up. Daisy was, in so many ways, the closet thing to a daughter Mrs Patmore had never known. She'd taken the girl into her charge, taught her and shaped her into the young woman she'd become — and she did love her, in a way. She couldn't be certain it was a mother's love, but it was pure and good, so it might have been close.

"Daisy, you're a good girl with a kind soul. Any child you crosses yer path, whether in your classroom or a child of yer own, will be a lucky one."

"D'you mean that, Mrs Patmore? Really, do you?" Daisy said, appearing eagerly at the cook's side, her eyes wide as they'd been when she just a scullery maid cowering away from Mrs Hughes.

Mrs Patmore only chuckled, pulling the girl into a hug, "Daisy, if you only loved yourself half as much as you love everyone else you'd be unstoppable."

* * *

"You're doing wonderfully, Anna, nearly there!" Dr. Clarkson said from the foot of the bed. With Mary and John at the head holding Anna steady and Mrs Hughes waiting steadfast with a warm blanket, the world was about to meet the littlest Bates.

"John, I don't think I can do it," Anna breathed, "What if there's something wrong? What if something happens and we can't —" she moaned, interrupting herself as another strong contraction took hold of her.

"Anna, my darling, that's all behind us now. No harm will come to us, to our child — and even still, look around you, look at who is in this room with us. We are not alone. We will never be alone."

Anna looked up at him, trying to steady her breathing. From her side, Mary chuckled, "He's right you know, Anna. This little darling will be stolen away from you at every available opportunity. Beginning, I should think, on your next push when Mrs Hughes gives them their first proper cuddle."

At this, Anna laughed, tears streaming down her face. She sat up and gave one more strong push — and then, silence. For a moment, nothing hung around them but the winter's night, a faint drone of music from the piano downstairs and the slightest _ping_ of sleet against the windows.

Then — at last, a tiny cry rising up and filling the room. No one spoke at first but Mrs Hughes did lean down, gathering the baby up into her arms as Dr Clarkson cut the cord.

"A handsome wee lad," Mrs Hughes whispered, swaddling the baby tightly before coming around to settle him into Anna's arms, "And fit as a fiddle by the sounds of it."

Anna gasped, looking at the tiny, warm life in her arms.

"Hello," she said, "Oh my God. _Hello, you_."

"He's beautiful," Mary said, "Simply perfect."

Anna looked up at John, who was speechless. Through his tears he tried to speak, but in the end merely nodded, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Mrs Hughes took a few steps back from the bed as to give Dr Clarkson enough space to finish looking after Anna. Lady Mary retreated to tell the others of the Christmas gift. Mrs Hughes, too, would soon abscond to tell the servants, but she waited a moment, a slight chill running up her spine from the window's draught.

She sung quietly as she snuck out of the room, _"I love Thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh."_

* * *

 _Christmas Eve, 1910_

"Well, here we are Mrs Hughes," Carson said, settling into his familiar seat in her sitting room, a just-poured glass of sherry in his paw, "I have come to look forward to our little tradition."

Mrs Hughes smiled from across the table, "It's not even just a holiday tradition now, we've had a sherry before bed at least once a week since the garden party last _July!_ And you remember how late we were up _that_ night."

Carson chuckled, "Well, that was strictly work, Mrs Hughes. The number of averted crises afforded us all the sherries we've had — and many more."

"Happy we are in agreement," she said, raising her glass to him, "Now, before we get too tired — your gift," she said, setting her glass down and retrieving a long, paper-wrapped gift with a simple bow from where it had been laying, unseen, up against the wall. When she presented it to Carson, he blanched.

"Oh my," he said quietly, "Well, this might be a rather memorable exchange."

She furrowed her brow, "Oh?"

He cleared his throat and rose from the table, stepping quietly as he could across the room to the door of her parlor. He opened it, reached outside, and pulled in a nearly identical looking parcel. Long, wrapped it brown paper with a simple bow.

He held it out to her somewhat apologetically, his face flushing.

" _Well,_ " she breathed, biting her lip, her eyes sparkling.

"Shall we open them at the same time?" he said, reaching for his parcel. She nodded, grinning widely, and as they each ripped into the paper, they both let out a huff of air that led to laughter — real laughter, which neither of them could remember the last time they felt the ache of such a laugh in their middles.

Neither spoke, but rather, looked at one another from across the table, their cheeks tear stained from laughter, as they held up identical, hook-handled umbrellas.

* * *

It was well after midnight when they finally returned home, and it almost seemed silly for them to do so when in just a few hours they would return to see to it that Christmas morning was as magical for the family as the eve had been for the servant's. Anna had settled in just fine, the babe blissfully asleep and John curled up in the bed with them both. Lady Mary settled into a guest room, but not after spending several hours regaling the excitement to her mother and having a cocktail before bed.

Elsie was nearly asleep on her feet as she crossed the room to their bed, where Charles was already curled onto his side, his light snores filling the room. As she crawled into bed next to him, wrapping her arms around his middle and pressing herself against his warm back, she yawned and was surprised to feel him begin to stir in her arms.

"Elsie," he said, echoing her yawn, "Do you still have that umbrella I bought you for Christmas that year? Do you remember?"

She laughed, her eyes tightly closed as she smiled against his back, inhaling his scent which only stood to calm her and push her closer to sleep.

"Of _course_ I remember," she whispered, "And _of course_ I still have it. I still _use_ it," she giggled, hugging him tighter, "It's a very nice umbrella."

He laughed and she felt it through his back, shimmying in her chest, "It was. However did we manage that?"

"Well," she yawned, "I always thought perhaps you'd seen me bringing it back from Ripon. Or saw it in my sitting room and it gave you the idea."

He turned in her arms, looking at her in the dark, "I did not," he said, "It was a most deliberate gift. Yours had broken. And there was one day, a rainy day, where you came back from the village and were soaked through. You were a sorry sight and I thought, _well, she needs an umbrella_. So I acquired you one," he sighed, leaning over to kiss her forehead, "So perhaps _you_ saw the umbrella in _my_ pantry and were inspired."

" _No_ ," Elsie said, kissing him on the nose, "Don't you remember? The family's last trip into London before the holiday you left yours on the train."

He grunted, "It was _stolen_."

"No, darling, you _left it on the train_ but you told the _footmen_ that it had been purloined in a patisserie on Charing Cross Road."

"However did you know I had left it on the train?"

"I didn't for sure, but I heard you fibbing to Thomas in the servant's hall."

"How did you know I was fibbing?" he asked incredulously, "And it wasn't a lie, really, it was just. . .a _variation on the truth._ "

She snorted, "I see. Well, I'd known you to nearly leave it behind in train cars before and it seemed a far more logical turn of events than some guttersnipe snatching up your umbrella from a patisserie and leaving your pocket watch and your shillings."

"That was fifteen years ago," he said quietly, "Even in the days of old, how well you knew me. It astounds me to think you would pay any mind to me at all."

"It's always been my nature," she said, curling against his chest, settling in as he wrapped his arms tightly round her, "To look after the people I love."

"You loved me then?" he asked, settling his chin atop her hair, inhaling the faint scent of lavender and mulled cider, a little woodsmoke and balsam.

"I wasn't sure of it," she whispered, fingering the buttons of his night shirt, "but I knew I couldn't stand the thought of you not having an umbrella."

He laughed, kissing the top of her head, "Yes," he said knowingly, "I think that constitutes love."


End file.
